


Party On

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [11]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cowgirl Position, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Edgeplay, Frottage, Grinding, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Control, Partying, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Valve Play (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: The party don't start until Jazz walks in.(And Jazz just walked in on Prowl in bed.)
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Two Good Mechs [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1316021
Comments: 3
Kudos: 90





	Party On

Blaster's parties were renowned galaxy wide. The mech had played concert halls and exclusive clubs and industrial raves, to cheering audiences in every city on Cybertron and a lot of the colonies off world as well. 

Therefore Prowl supposed he should be grateful that Blaster was so happy to arrange parties for the crew of the Ark instead - to have tens of mechs dancing along instead of thousands - but they  _ did _ create an awful racket. 

He wasn’t much of a party mech. This news would not surprise many. 

He had elected to cover a monitor shift for a promise from Sideswipe that he would behave for once. Even from the security desks he could hear the thump and drum of a bassline and occasionally the discordant wail of mecha attempting to sing along. He could see on the monitors that most of the mecha who had lasted this long were over-energised, the bright glow of highgrade slopping in their glasses. Visible among them was Jazz, with an arm draped over Hound's shoulder and crooning along to the vocals of whatever song Blaster had on. Prowl watched for a moment and then flicked to the next monitor. 

Behind him the door panel beeped and hissed open. In the reflection of the monitor he could see Red Alert step through and settle in the other seat. He had also declined to attend the party, to complete the shift after its finish and chase any stragglers back to their quarters. 

Red Alert was also not a party mech, but Prowl bet he wouldn’t have half as much fun afterwards as Prowl himself was intending to have. 

Blaster was slowing his music down, ready to step back from the decks and let the party fizzle at the agreed upon curfew. Given half a chance, Prowl knew there were mecha there who would never stop. 

"Why did we agree to this?" sighed Red Alert, peering suspiciously at a monitor showing the party antics. "This is a silly, dangerous waste of time and resources. I can't believe you sanctioned it." 

Prowl snorted. "The morale effects are unmistakable. And I recall you  _ also _ agreeing to this. Something about 'con activity being at a lull after the last rout." 

The Security Director stared daggers at him. "Jazz cornered me. You know how difficult it is to say no to him in person." 

This was something Prowl had to concede. "There is little he can't talk his way into." 

They sat in silence after that; Red Alert flicking through the security cameras with practised ease and Prowl watching as the party dissolved. He could follow Jazz' bouncing path from mech to mech, patting backs and handing over bottles of coolant to those that looked overheated. He was far more sober than most of his fellow partygoers, but his visor still glowed brightly with excitement and the effort of his dancing. His last stop was at Blaster's podium, and that was Prowl's cue to leave. 

"You're off two shifts in a row," said Red Alert, in a faintly accusatory tone as Prowl stood. "As is Jazz. Unusual." 

"Paranoia, Red Alert," said Prowl, "Is unbecoming." 

* * *

Prowl strolled back to his quarters in a leisurely fashion,, nodding to the various mecha he bumped into along the way. Most of them quailed and attempted to straighten up from their drunk postures - few achieving anything worthwhile - but Prowl wasn't interesting in disorderly conduct this night. 

His quarters were dark and empty. On the counter was a half full cube of highgrade that Jazz had clearly left before he headed out, and Prowl plucked it up to sip on the way to the berth. It was stale, and the charge had fizzed out of it, but it went down smoothly. 

He flicked the lights on as he entered the berthroom, to a low setting and settled onto the berth to wait. The highgrade was mostly gone by the time the other door slid open and a voice raised in song in the anteroom. It was mostly nonsense crooning, accompanied with a certain amount of clattering as Jazz puttered around. He was probably downing coolant to stave the impending processor ache off, and sure enough when he appeared in the doorway he was holding a half finished cube in his hand. 

"Prowl..." He stopped and leant on the frame, eyeing his lover like a predator finding its prey waiting for it in its own den. It was faintly disconcerting, but mostly very attractive. 

If he had been honest, Prowl had been expecting this. A mixture of high grade fuel, good music and dancing never failed to make Jazz' fuel pump run harder, drive his temperature up a few degrees and Prowl was never too proud to reap the benefits. 

"Good party?" He asked, sipping the last of the highgrade, raising his chin to swallow in an intentionally provocative fashion. Jazz' visor shimmered with iridescence. 

"Very good." Jazz’ vocaliser hummed with strain, but it added a husky quality to his smooth tenor. He downed the rest of his coolant as well and tossed the cube with unerring aim onto the top of a footlocker, starting to pace forward. Prowl liked Jazz when he was open and pretty and bubbling with glee, but Primus-damnit he was slagging  _ sexy _ when he was in this mood instead. "I missed you though." 

Prowl made an inquisitive noise, his vents cracking open as his core temperature shot up. His hands fell naturally onto wide hips as Jazz crawled up onto the berth and straddled his lap, every move deliberate and graceful. The frame against him thrummed with excitement and heat, pushing bumper to bumper. 

"Yeah," murmured Jazz, almost to himself. His hands settled on Prowl's shoulders, dipped down to rub over the hinges of his doorwings. "Blaster played that song I like. So good for grindin' up against someone, and all I could think of was gettin' on your lap and dancin' for ya." 

"And I wasn't there," said Prowl, pushing into his lover's touch, "How remiss of me." 

"Awful," echoed Jazz, a wicked smirk crossing his handsome face. Prowl longed to kiss it off, but often when Jazz got a look like that he was about to show Prowl a real good time. "Ya better make it up to me."

"Anything," said Prowl, "I'm yours." 

Shivering in heady delight, Jazz leant close and purred, "Then lie down." 

This was a special sort of torture than Prowl couldn't find himself to be upset about. Jazz knew what he liked and was no shrinking spark about asking for it, but he didn't often take charge quite like this. But right now there was no argument; Prowl's task was to lie on the berth and shudder at the slow pressure over his pelvic plate. 

Jazz moved in slow purposeful circles on his lap, his own pelvic plating withdrawn so he was grinding the wetness of his valve over Prowl's armour. The little sneak was getting off on it too, and Prowl was stuck unable to transform the plating back against the pressure. His spike was trapped and aching, and he longed for the opportunity to sink into his mate's warmth. 

"Jazz," he whispered, clutching at strong thighs and pausing to grit his dentae as the mech in question circled his hips dowm hard and shuddered in pleasure.

Visor lighting with glee, Jazz paused and peered down. "Something the matter, Prowler?" 

For a moment, Prowl's vocaliser locked up with the sheer force of lust. He wanted, wanted,  _ wanted _ , and this terrible creature on his lap was grinning down at him with all the control. "Wouldn't it be better with my plating open?" He croaked finally. "My spike is more than ready for you..." 

"It's a bit early to give up," said Jazz, all teeth and wicked smile. "I wanna keep this goin' for a long time, Prowler." 

Lured in by his ego, Prowl bristled, "Once is not my limit!" 

"Oh I know," Jazz crooned, victorious, "But can ya go enough times to satisfy me tonight? I'm feelin' real  _ flirty _ ."

"As many times as you want," said Prowl, who with ego and libido combined would have agreed to chop off a doorwing if it meant Jazz might take mercy. 

Jazz hummed, rocking his hips in delicate little shifts that must have been delightful on his anterior node. The pressure was excruciating. "I'll be countin' on ya," he said. 

"Yes!" gasped Prowl, "Whatever you want! Just frag me!" 

With a choked noise, Jazz lunged down and kissed him hard, bumpers catching with a jolt. His weight shifted up off Prowl's hips, and the speed his panel opened was only rivalled by how fast his spike pressurised. He moaned, open and shameless into Jazz' mouth, and squeezed his grip on those sinful hips to drag him back down. This time is was Jazz' turn to groan as the head of Prowl's spike pushed up through the outer lips of his valve, just missing slipping in and bumping along his anterior node. 

"Doesn't that feel much better?" He thrust up, the hot wet pressure relief from the claustrophobic ache; Jazz ground down in response, frame jolting as a ridge of plating shunted over his node. "Something softer to grind against?" 

"Feels pretty hard to me." Jazz straightened and shimmied prettily, rubbing slick up the underside of Prowl's spike in a deeply obscene way. Every inch of Prowl's wiring flared with lusty charge, sparks coalescing visibly on his thicker cables. "Mmm, and ya feel pretty charged. Still gonna meet your side of the bargain?" 

"Yes! Whatever you want!" Prowl didn’t even try to avoid the wave of overload, just let the voltage swamp him, turning his last words into a static shriek. It was like getting hit by a bolt of lightning, hot and electrifying, every sensor overwhelmed by the throbbing spillage of power. His transfluid reservoirs opened with a satisfying ache, spilling scalding minerals over his own pelvis and up against Jazz’ protoform. The pulses faded slowly, and Prowl relaxed as the tension eased from his struts. He smiled up at Jazz fondly, petting his aft. 

"I do like it when you tease me," sighed Prowl. "Come up here and I'll show you how much." 

Jazz snorted and braced his hands on Prowl's bumper, so he could slither his array along the mess Prowl had made of them both. "Ya think I was jokin'?" His voice was dark and promised a world of things that made Prowl shudder for reasons other than oversensitivity. "I want overloads, and I want 'em offa your spike. I been thinkin' bout this all shift, gettin' onto your lap and fraggin' you dumb." 

Prowl was already feeling plenty dumb. His transfluid reduced friction to near zero, but Jazz was taking advantage of the lubrication to set a rougher pace, and his sensornet could only just cope with the input. He could only stare as Jazz ground down extra hard and overloaded, the tremors of his frame spilling fresh slick over Prowl's spike. 

For a moment he sat still, shivering with the aftershocks, and Prowl started to suppose that all the talk had been bravado or fantasy. But then his lover's helm quirked up and that terrible grin reappeared. Still hips shimmied again and all of Prowl's logic disappeared into a fog of lust and pleasure as Jazz slipped a hand between his thighs and directed Prowl's spike into the clutch of his valve. 

"Frag!" Jazz was hot and tight inside, the mesh still flexing and rippling with the currents of his overload. "Jazz!" 

With a spark-felt groan, Jazz took him to the base and paused to vent a long stream of steam from his overheated core. "Yeah, that's what I was lookin' for." He rocked back and forth, the calipers of his internals clenching in a slow wave that made Prowl's engines howl. "Ain't gonna let me down are ya?" 

"I don't think I could," gasped Prowl, not entirely knowing what he meant as he said it. Jazz was a cruel master perching on his lap like this, his slow back-and-forth strokes rocking Prowl's spike deep inside so there was no chance of losing pressure. He could have sat up, tried to turf the devious menace from his lap, but instead his legs lay heavy and all his hands seemed able to do was grip Jazz' hips and squeeze. He felt hazy, like he had been drugged or hypnotized and he knew the only thing Jazz had supplied to do this was his natural magnetism and an active imagination. 

Normally he would have played a more active part, rolled them over and showed Jazz a good time of his own, but Jazz still seemed keen to stay in charge, enjoying lording it over Prowl's stunned state. And as much as Prowl did like being in control, it was very nice to lie back and be used.

"Nah, I know ya won't," said Jazz, lifting his hands to trail over his own chest in an intolerably provocative move. "You'll let me do what I want with ya." He stroked the tense cables of his throat, where Prowl would have put his mouth to good use if he had the wherewithal. As it was he could only stare open mouthed and pant desperate affirmatives.

Certainly what Jazz was doing was more for his gratification rather than Prowl’s; the slow rolls of his body designed to titillate his nodes more than generate friction for the spike deep within his valve. He ran his own hands over his own frame, touching those glorious places he liked to be groped the most. Prowl knew them better than the back of his doorwings and reached up to try to reciprocate. 

With a huff of his vents Jazz slapped his servos back down. "I said ya were to lie still and lemme have my fun. Am I borin' ya?" Every inch of the hot mesh around Prowl's spike clenched down in a vice like squeeze. Prowl had forgotten how much  _ control _ Jazz had over his own body.

"No!" He bleated. "I'm just, I wanted.." His processor felt foggy and overwhelmed and sweet, devious, cruel Jazz took pity on him. 

"Ya just wanted a quick grope, huh?" He cooed, releasing the nearly agonising pressure in a slick wave and grunting as pressure ground onto his high ceiling nodes. "Is that what ya wanted?" 

Prowl nodded, his optics skittering over the slinky curves seated on his hips.

"What a sweet lover I have. Just wanna please me, huh?" Jazz flexed his inner calipers again as a reward and Prowl choked on his groan.

"Good answer," said Jazz with a cheeky little shimmy. He was biting at his lower lip by now, a sign he was close to losing control. He hooked his digits into the underside of his bumper, where Prowl would have zeroed in as well, tweaked hidden sensors. Sparks glittered along his chrome detailing. “I’ll give ya a treat for that. Sit up; come here.”

With a gracefulness Prowl could only envy Jazz leant backwards, giving him room to heave himself up in clumsy stages; first to his elbows and then his hands and finally managing to engage his hydraulics enough to hold his torso upright. His knees braced up against Jazz’ back as a counterweight and Jazz inclined forward a little more, until Prowl had a faceful of bumper. 

With his knees underneath him, and Prowl having to focus on maintaining his position, Jazz was able to set a slow rocking pace. Each shunt forward must have ground his anterior node against Prowl’s protoform, judging by the soft hitches of his vents every time. It felt to Prowl like he had sunk even deeper, the pressure intense. There was a pretty stretch of shiny chrome right next to his cheek and all he could do was pant hot steam until he could no longer see his distorted reflection. 

“Feel good?” gasped Jazz distractedly. 

Prowl nodded again. He could feel hot charge seeping through the conductive points of his spike; Jazz seemed to like the destroyed timbre of his voice when he moaned again. The sparks shone brighter on exposed cabling and the pulsing heat of his valve grew hotter. Prowl searched his processor for anything else that might help his lover get off, but the only thing he could think about was how good he felt buried so deeply. He gasped as Jazz moaned sweetly, and shuddered all over. 

“Come on then,” he murmured, leaning forward a little more so he could whisper the words. “Overload for me. I wanna feel it all over, Prowler. Let me feel it, yeah?”

HIs overload struck like a hammer, and he buried his face firmly against Jazz’ bumper as the waves of charge dispersed through every sensor in his frame. He hadn’t imagined his transfluid tanks could hold as much as they did, as hot thick liquid poured up into the tight space of Jazz’ frame. 

“Oh! Oh, yeah, Prowler, that’s it!” Jazz shuddered and moaned, seemingly frozen in Prowl's grip at the sensation. "Oh, you're so good…" 

Stunned as he was Prowl preened a bit at the compliment, and so was taken all the more by surprise when Jazz shoved him back down onto the cushions and smirked down. 

"Not done?" He questioned, only quavering slightly. 

"Not done," Jazz agreed. 

Two overloads didn't seem enough for Jazz, who dragged himself to a third writhing on Prowl's lap, grinding his node hard with two digits, and then coaxed a fourth out by swivelling around on his knees and using Prowl's spike as a handy sex toy to bounce on. Somehow Prowl had maintaining enough pressure to fulfil his duty as required, and even gained another tank-clenching overload himself, but he was starting to more than flag. Even the view he had of Jazz' wide aft could only do so much for his libido. He hadn’t dared risk reaching up again, and had fisted his servos in the sheets until his digits had gone numb. Jazz didn't seem intent on finishing, even though steam seeped from his vents and his engine had gone rough with fatigue. 

"Mercy," Prowl whined, not for the first time, as Jazz swivelled back around to seat himself comfortably facing forward on Prowl’s lap again. 

"Should I play ya the tune?" Jazz mused. "Might help ya perk up a little..." His valve squeezed sharply again around Prowl's aching spike, the slow upward ripple a mimic of the grip of a hand, milking drops of fluid from him. There was no way his reservoirs could have any transfluids left, for the mess spilling down his own panelling and inner thighs, but Jazz seemed determined to drain him thoroughly dry. "Hey, Prowler..." 

"Play it," he groaned, "Show me." 

Speakers clicked open on Jazz' shoulders but pressed against Prowl's digits on his hips; Jazz drew his servos around to cup his aft instead, which was just as good a grip as their previous perch. The static noise made his digits tingle, but the bump and thud of the bass beat that Jazz cued up next spread through his frame like an earthquake. 

“Primus!” he choked. The bassline was a rhythmic deep pulse, and Jazz’ internal sound system pumped up the volume until it drowned out the squeak of the berth frame and the clang and clatter of their armour in contact. Vibrations shook through Jazz’ hips, and Prowl reaped the benefits as a constant lowgrade hum through his most sensitive protoform. 

“Ah yeah,” said Jazz, clenching down in countertime to the beat of the bass, singing the first few words of the verse in that husky voice. “Yeah, this is so my favourite tune… Dunno how Blaster gets away playin’ it in public: ain’t this baseline just obscene?”

What was obscene was what Jazz was doing to his spike, swivelling his hips like a practised dancer, every swing and roll as sweet and slick as the one before. And the hum of the bassline was an ever present purr, that coaxed charge from Prowl's sensor he hadn't imagined he could conjure any longer. 

"Oh Jazz," he whined, soft and broken, vocaliser hitching with the sting of charge on tender protoform. "Please, Jazz, please.." 

"Yeah, Prowler? What ya -ah! - what ya want?" Jazz looked more than flushed now, steam and condensation dripping from his curves and angles, whole frame aquiver with the volume of his own music. He couldn't have looked better in Prowl's optics. 

"Please!" He gasped, the thrum of the bass building as the song approached its finale. It was ecstasy and agony along his spike, snaps of charge coalescing from Jazz' revving systems into his own, squeezing and rolling and slick. The crescendo built and built, and Prowl could only watch as Jazz movements became increasingly frenetic, until he was finally gasping with the same desperation that Prowl had been experiencing for the last few joors., and Prowl shunted his hips up, once, twice and watched his love overload like a lightning storm. 

As ever, Jazz was beautiful in overload, sparks trembling on his exposed cables, visor swimming with iridescent static. His groans of pleasure were split into harmonious chords, his engine a dirty growl in the background, almost drowning out the fading bass of his music in the background. 

Prowl clutched his aft tightly, shivering and every wire in his frame strung tight in tension. He was so keyed up and yet his charge just hovered on the very verge of blow out, unable to tip over even with all the stimulus atop of him. 

“Oh, Prowler,” sighed Jazz, vocaliser straining and popping as he slumped a little further down. His valve was too hot and too slick, and even the squeeze of wet calipers failed to stimulate more than a whine from Prowl’s chest. 

Distantly he was aware that he must have looked a state - judging by the soft, fond expression on Jazz’ face as he surveyed him - but currently he was beyond dignity. 

“Jazz, my Jazz,” he whined, nearly wept, “Please, I need you. Let me overload, Jazz, please!”

Jazz leant forward and kissed him, sweet for one moment and then deep and raunchy the next. He sank a sharp fang into the corner of Prowl’s lower lip, and smiled like some terrible devil. 

“Whatever ya want, my love,” he said, squeezing the soft wetness of himself around Prowl’s spike tight and laughing when he shivered but still could not conjure up that extra volt of charge. “Maybe ya need somethin’ a little different, huh? What d’ya want?”

Casting about wildly, feeling more than a little deranged, Prowl's processor swarmed over his response. Jazz’ valve was so slick and soft with transfluids and lubricant, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being robbed of that sensation just yet, even as it tormented him. Jazz’ pretty frame had been his to explore at his leisure previously, every seam and gap exploited; his servos nimble, his aft tight, his mouth clever. Prowl wanted all of it at once. 

Jazz purred at his bereft expression and nipped his mouth again. “Poor Prowler,” he purred, “You just want it all, don’t ya?”

Had he said it out loud? Prowl wasn’t sure if he was capable of sensible vocalisation any longer. 

“Ya can take it all later,” said Jazz, writhing up tight, capturing Prowl’s helm in his hands so he could murmur the words into Prowl’s mouth. “Any time ya want, except for now, and I bet that makes ya want it more, huh?”

Prowl’s neck jerked in a nod. 

“Sweet thing, I can’t wait. I bet ya’ll ruin me. Every port ya can use opened for you? Pin me down and frag me until I’m wailin’ for it?” Jazz’ plush lips curved into a smile. “Just like ya right now.”

Fuses brimming, the charge needed to throw his aching systems into overload was measurable in millivolts; Prowl moaned helplessly, chasing another kiss, another word from Jazz’ terrible, lovely mouth. 

“Mmm, I can almost feel it now.” He ran a lubricant stained finger over his own glossa. “The taste of ya in my intakes, takin’ me on my knees, until I’ve got your transfluid spillin’ down my chin… Or maybe ya’ll take me from behind, stretch open my aft and frag me like a beastformer from behind? I know ya like my aft; I bet ya’d make a mess of me.”

On the precipice, Prowl sobbed. 

“Or maybe,” purred Jazz, voice like silk. “Ya’ll let me push you down again and have my way with ya in any way I want. Because, Prowler, you’re mine, mech.”

He overloaded so hard the sensation was almost numb, crashing down on him again and again in cable-cramping spasms. hIs vocaliser snarled and spat garbled glyphs, his helm tossed back into the berth pillows. It was like being scored from the inside out and the only option available was to lie back and enjoy the ride. 

* * *

He must have rebooted, he realised afterwards, or his chronometer had shorted, as there was a chunk of missing time before he was aware of more than the roar of his own pleasure. 

Atop him, helm cushioned comfortably on Prowl's chest, Jazz was sprawled like he was entirely made of limbs. His taut belly was precisely pressed to Prowl's spent and aching spike, and he could feel the shift of every overlapping plate as he slowly retracted it back to its sheath. 

"Feelin' good, Prowler?" murmured Jazz, easing the weight of his frame off Prowl and more onto the sheets.

He thought about it for a long time and decided on a simple, "Yes."

"Good!" He said, with a radiant smile. “Primus!” Jazz stretched and flopped amid the ruined and rumpled sheets. He reached a questing hand down between his thighs and sighed in satisfaction, digits coming away slick. He didn’t seem bothered by the mess, and instead wriggled himself into a comfortable position against Prowl’s cooling frame, visor flickering off as he settled down. “Aw, mech, I’m tired. I’m gonna recharge like a lump ‘a lead.”

Prowl might have argued that if anyone was shattered here it was he himself, but his processor was refusing to reboot his logic centre, pinging gradually down into the quiet of recharge. Jazz’ fingers entwined with one of his servos, and he smiled to himself before he faded into warm sleep. 

He wasn’t a mech for parties, but he was certainly happy to reap the benefits afterwards. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the party that disrupted Prowl's recharge so much in 'A Better Night's Sleep' that Jazz had to give him a good night BJ.
> 
> Jazz is a gold standard power bottom when he wants to be.


End file.
